Her Lips are Red (i can see them when i kneel)
by AvaRosier
Summary: Lydia is a graduate student at Cambridge, and she is about to cross a line in her relationship with Professors Hale and Argent.


Note: this fic will contain scenes of d/s (femdom), age-legal professor/student relationships, and this is an AU-All Human fic.

* * *

It wasn't often that Lydia Martin felt out of her milieu.

She was a very accomplished and ambitious twenty-four year old woman who often found herself at the top of the hierarchy in social situations. And considering she was seeking to do the same here, she was going to have to get over her residual nervousness and start projecting the image of a confident and commanding personality.

She walked through the entrance to Baroosh, a nightclub just off of Market Square, buoyed by the bouncers not even asking to check her identification. Lydia weaved her way through the crowd, already detesting the loud roar of voices. Baroosh was one of the swankier places to go for a drink in Cambridge, so Lydia had dressed up to the nines, as if she were expecting paparazzi to snap her picture.

She was decked out in a raspberry dress that skimmed the curves of her body and a pair of dove-gray heels that matched the clutch she was carrying. It was warm enough out, and she had taken a taxi directly into the town centre, in order to forego wearing hose or a jacket. She'd probably be shivering as she tried to walk to the taxi rank without breaking her ankles at the end of the night, but when you looked this good? Definitely worth a few goosebumps.

And to think she was a California girl.

Ignoring the appreciative glances of more than one entitled undergrad, she managed to elbow her way to the front of the queues at the bar and waited with barely veiled annoyance for one of the bartenders to come take her drink order. She gave a tiny jolt as a warm, masculine hand cupped the bare skin above her left elbow.

"How truly fortuitous meeting you here, Ms Martin," a mellifluous voice murmured into her ear. Looking over her shoulder, she recognized none other than Peter Hale, a professor whose seminars she sometimes frequented even though she wasn't actually a part of the History faculty. She may have been pursuing a doctorate in Pure Mathematics, but she liked to keep up with her other interests, and Peter Hale was among the foremost in his field- studying the role of the monstrous in medieval and early Europe.

Peter moved into the space next to her, forcibly nudging another man out of the way so that he could face her. His hand slid from her arm to the middle of her back where she tried not to be too aware of it.

"Professor Hale," she trilled, "I wish I could say it was a pleasure." He only chuckled at her insincere smile, faint lines crinkling at the corners of his blue eyes. Fifteen years her senior, Peter was a very handsome man and had _terrific_ sartorial sense. She gave him a subtle once-over: He filled out his navy button-up and gray sweater very well- giving the impression of broad muscles and a calmness that barely betrayed the strength underneath. Glancing past the quality denim jeans he was wearing, she tried not to moan happily at the sight of his shoes.

She never could resist a man with good taste in shoes.

"My dear, in all your years, I hope no man has ever accused you of being obscure," he glanced down the bar and waved two fingers and as if summoned, a female bartender stopped next to them. Because Lydia held certain egalitarian views, she didn't mentally roll her eyes at the covetous look the bartender was giving Peter- she often manipulated people in the same manner. It wasn't that she disliked Peter Hale, she simply liked to pride herself on her good instincts, and there was something about Peter that told her she would not be able to master him as easily as she would others.

"I'll have a 250 of the _Bouchard Aine et Fils_ Pinot Noir, if you will, and the lady will have…" he glanced back at her expectantly. Instead of bending over the sticky bar to shout her order at the bartender, Lydia simply leaned in until her breasts were brushing his torso, tilted her head, and then murmured into his ear, "I'll have the red Zinfandel, large."

His hand tightened perceptibly against her lower back and Lydia felt a dark thrill spread through her body. He would probably pay for her drink, and she was going to expect it and accept it. They were undeniably crossing a line here, although it was hardly _verboten_ for a doctoral student in Mathematics to have a relationship of some sort with a professor of History.

She wasn't sure why she had done that. Lydia was not one to live in a state of denial, and a part of the reason why she was here tonight was because she had decided she wanted to try out being a dominatrix. She had found a fetish community website and discovered a monthly casual meeting taking place and figured she might as well give it a go. It seems she was confident enough to consider giving other things a go, as well.

"What brings you here, then?" Peter asked her, handing over his bank card to the bartender without taking his eyes off Lydia.

"Oh, just a small get-together with a few acquaintances," she demurred, picking up her glass of wine and taking a small taste. "They booked the top floor for a party." Trying to look regretful, but thankful to him for buying her a drink, she relished the thought of sauntering up those stairs with his eyes on her legs.

Peter smirked down at her and bent his head closer to her ear so that he could be heard over the cacophony. His breath tickled her ear. "You wouldn't be going to _'Mort's Book Club'_, would you? It just so happens I'm heading up there, as well."

Lydia could feel panic gripping her insides and a part of her, the one who was overly concerned with appearances and sounded like her father, was screaming at her to look at him with confusion and act like she had gotten the venues mixed up. The other part of her, the part that had written out several pros and cons lists before deciding to come here tonight, said to show her cards to the table.

It seemed that the two of them were going to cross that line even further tonight.

"My, my, Professor. It seems I just might learn a thing or two about you tonight," she said with a saucy wink and turned to saunter away from the bar. She felt his eyes on her and put a definite sway into her hips, not caring who else was watching. Lydia was a woman who enjoyed being admired.

When she turned onto the first landing, she glanced down and saw Peter following her at a distance, evidently not in a hurry to catch up with her right away. The way he was watching her, hungrily, like a predator, stroked her ego. (And made her panties damp.)

She made it to the second floor and saw the sign for 'Mort's Book Club' and, mindful of the man slowly pursuing her, didn't hesitate before strolling into the room.

There were perhaps twenty people there, and she was glad she had decided to be fashionably late. This was a part of her sexuality she wanted to explore, but there were a limited number of ways she could get in touch with people she might want to 'play' with, and the fetish community website she had signed up for was perhaps the major network for people in the area to explore their own kinks. Lydia had made little effort to get to know anyone, which was another way of making this night harder on herself because she was going to have to walk up to perfect strangers and introduce herself.

Not exactly a problem for her.

But then, there was Peter Hale, who had just arrived at her side. Cupping his glass of wine casually in one hand, he scanned the faces in the room, some of which were staring at them with curiosity.

"I see no one of import, so why don't you and I claim the sofa in the corner there, and have a bit of show-and-tell?" He persuaded her with a winning smile.

"I think we're a little old to be pretending to be in Kindergarten," she retorted, giving him an arch of her eyebrow.

"Oh, I think you'd be surprised the things grad school and kindergarten have in common, Ms Martin," he pointed out laconically. He swung his free hand out in the direction of the unoccupied sofa, and Lydia nodded her assent before striding over to the corner he had indicated. Once they were settled, their bodies angled towards one other for the purpose of conversation and their legs just about touching, they started catching up on what the other had been up to in the few months since they had seen each other last.

"It's been a while since you sat in on one of my or Professor Argent's seminars; we have so missed your scathing criticisms of our scholarship," Peter asked, swinging his arm casually onto the top of the sofa behind her head.

Lydia loved being at Cambridge, it afforded her the opportunity to sit in on lectures in a multitude of subjects at her behest, and if it weren't for her adoration of numbers, she would be scuttling down either the Classics corridors or those of the History faculty. It was her appreciation of archaic Latin that had drawn her to the seminars where Professors Hale and Argent had been presenting some of their research into the folklore surrounding werewolves in early European societies.

She had learned a fair bit in those seminars, but when it came to their interpretation of archaic or classic Latin translated into old French, she had been a very vocal critic. Truth be told, she had the same reputation in the maths department, well-earned from her willingness to argue with prominent academics. But she did so because she knew she was right; or if she was not right, they were definitely missing something crucial in their proofs.

They could either listen to her now, or publish their work as is and be humiliated when she published her own rebuttal where the academic world could see it.

But both Peter and Professor Argent (and she was perfectly aware that she was now referring to the former in more familiar terms, thank you very much) seemed to enjoy her presence and happily enough debated with her.

"I had my first-year report due, and then I flew back home for a month. I had to get some sun before I began entertaining suicidal tendencies. Should I be flattered that you two noticed my absence?"

"Ms. Martin," Peter told her earnestly, leaning ever so slightly closer, "You leave a blazing trail wherever you go; of course we would miss your presence. Compared to the look of bovine submission on most undergraduates' faces, it's supremely flattering to have a lovely, brilliant young lady such as yourself challenge us."

His words did more than the wine to spread warmth throughout her limbs. "Do you know, Professor Hale, I always did appreciate a man well schooled in the art of flattery?" She asked rhetorically.

"Do you then?" he raised an eyebrow. "Then you'll forgive the incredible crassness of my next question: have you some poor, hapless young man to call boyfriend?"

She gave a little huff at that question. "I'm not exactly looking to settle down and get married any time in the near future. I've dated a few guys since I've been here in Cambridge, but we seem to suffer from a number of fundamental differences."

"Such as?" His tone was more playful now.

"They're pretentious idiots, and I'm not."

He let out a bark of laughter around the rim of his wine glass before he took another sip. Lydia imitated him, letting the aroma of sweet grape tickle her nostrils and luxuriating in the soft burn of alcohol as it filled her mouth. Peter's hand had gradually moved down during the course of their conversation until his arm was nearly around her shoulders and his fingers were now threading themselves lightly through the strands of her hair. Lydia shivered at the light tugging sensation on her scalp, and smiled as she remembered something from her past.

"You know, there was a boy in high school who had this quixotic obsession with me. I mostly ignored his existence, but there were times…"

"Yes? Go on," he said, voice low and rough. The wine was making Lydia feel emboldened enough to continue.

"I would think about making him kneel for me. I was so sure he would do whatever I asked. You should've seen his mouth, his hands; I could've trained him well. But the boy I _did _date in high school, our relationship was mostly smoke and mirrors. We were both too invested in the façade of being the power couple that ruled the hallways, I didn't quite have the nerve to ask him if I could do things like put makeup or lingerie on him. Or peg him." She watched Peter's reaction to her words, and was pleased to see his pupils dilate when she uttered the words 'peg him'. "Him, I had fairly trained. No matter how much he hated the movie, if I wanted to watch '_The Notebook'_, he always gave in even if he bitched for hours afterwards."

He raised his glass to her in a toast. "I appreciate a woman who knows what she wants." She clinked her glass against his and her lips curled up in a wry smirk.

"Yes, well. I wasn't brave enough to do what I really wanted then."

"But you are now?" There was more to that question, and both Peter and Lydia knew it. He was testing her willingness to continue what they had begun here tonight.

"Yes. And I think, given the circumstances, I should begin calling you Peter. It's not like I'm looking to play Lolita and glance coquettishly up at you through my lashes while calling you 'Professor'." She spoke directly to his face, and did not look away.

Peter's eyes were a brilliant shade of blue, and it was a testament to how aroused he must be that she could barely see the blue for the depth of his irises. His nostrils flared and the hand playing with her hair stopped and rested possessively on her shoulder.

"Does that mean I get to call you Lydia?" He murmured, lips curled up at one corner. He certainly had a defiant streak in him.

"No. I'd much prefer a variation on 'Mistress' or 'My Queen'," she corrected him. It hit her then.

She was going to fuck him.

Lydia absorbed the realization with a deep breath. She was going to _fuck a professor_- something she had never done before, so her shock was warranted. Her boyfriends had always been her contemporaries, and she had always easily felt a sense of dominance and mastery over them in the relationship; even if it never crossed that line into 'kinky' territory. Peter Hale was slippery like a snake, too easily charming, and she really wanted to break him.

"I would happily do that," he said, finally. Lydia narrowed her eyes at him disbelievingly.

"Really? I've got to say, you don't strike me as a man who is open to being dominated by a woman."

He laughed freely then, showing the pointed whites of his canines. There was nothing innocuous about that smile.

"I'm no shrinking violet, Ms Martin, you have my word on that. My interests are many and varied. And you just might be the most intellectually stimulating woman I've come across here in a long time.

Lydia had kept her hands around her wine glass the entire time, lest she give into temptation to touch him. But if they were going to do this…

She reached out and cupped his jaw, feeling the bristles of his beard against the sensitive skin of her palm.

"I'm not going home with you tonight," she informed him, eyes raking over him covetously. She let her hand follow the trail of her gaze, and she could feel the solid mass of his body through the soft material of his sweater. So warm…

"The enlightening thing about growing older is that you learn to truly be patient. I relish building up the anticipation- it really does make the release all the more…climatic." Peter just sits there, looking for all the world relaxed while she touched him, but she could sense the tightly coiled muscles underneath her hand. He didn't move closer or lean in to kiss her, let alone try to touch her bare legs, which were resting ever so slightly against the rough denim of his trousers.

"For example," he continues, his gaze boring into her face. "I could tell you how much I would love to slide off this couch onto my knees and taste you through your panties. We won't act on it in public, not like this, even at this type of gathering. But you'll think about it until you're next able to wrap those creamy thighs around my head." His nostrils were flaring at the thought.

As for Lydia herself, she felt a bit lightheaded from his words. Most of the blood in her body seemed to have pooled between her thighs. Were he any other man- no, boy, she would take him home and use him before kicking him out in the morning. But Peter Hale was going to be an entirely different ballgame. If she was going to be his Mistress…

She knocked back the last two sips of her wine in one go, set the glass steadily on the table next to the sofa, and then stood up. Mercifully, she did not sway unsteadily on her heels.

"I'm going to the Caius Superhall on Thursday. I trust you'll be able to find a way to attend."

Peter smirked up at her. "I shan't think that would be a problem."

She gave him an indulgent smile. "But until then, I think you could do with a small incentive. A taste, if you will...since you've been here before, you'll take me to a secluded room and show me what that mouth and those fingers are capable of. Think of it as a trial run. I don't fuck losers." Her eyes flashed viciously.

"Oh, and Peter? I'm not wearing any panties."

She turned and stalked towards the door. She didn't look back, not even for a second. She knew he would follow.


End file.
